Into the Storm

by Avi

  “What’s that have to do with hiring Irishmen?”

  “For a clever man, Mr. Jenkins,” Mr. Shagwell said, laughing scornfully, “you can be quite dense. You know as well as I do that I much prefer the native worker. But they resist the natural requirements of the mill. The Irish, however —”

  “They’re nothing but thieves!”

  Mr. Shagwell scowled but continued all the same. “The Irish are willing to take lower wages. Nor do they complain about the faster machines.”

  “Because they’re ignorant beggars.”

  “They do the work nonetheless,” Mr. Shagwell replied.

  “Sir, you’re a hypocrite!” Mr. Jenkins cried. His fringe of whiskers seemed to bristle.

  Mr. Shagwell refused to be provoked. “If we hire a few of these Irish workers — a mere handful,” he threw back, “it’s our way of reminding the native worker that he had best not ask for too much. Else … more Irish. It happened just this morning. Pay no mind to it.”

  “But I do mind it,” Mr. Jenkins exclaimed. “You swore you wouldn’t do so.”

  “Merely business,” Mr. Shagwell retorted. “Merely business.”

  Mr. Jenkins sighed and closed his eyes. Then — as if he had made up his mind — he sat up and glared at Mr. Shagwell. “My funds are low,” he announced.

  “As to funds, here you are,” Mr. Shagwell said. From his desk he took up and held out an envelope. Mr. Jenkins took it, opened it, and — to the mill owner’s great annoyance — checked its contents. Only then did the man pocket the money.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” Mr. Shagwell said with growing irritation, “over the past year you have received a considerable amount of money from me, is that not correct?”

  “And I did what you wanted: made sure your operatives knew the Irish were ready to take their jobs. Of course,” Mr. Jenkins added sarcastically, “you wouldn’t really do such a thing, now would you?”

  Mr. Shagwell’s smooth pink cheeks turned pinker. “Be careful, sir, that I don’t cut you off entirely.”

  “And replace me with an Irishman?” Mr. Jenkins sneered. “I don’t want any more talk!” he burst out. “I organize every day. From this city to that. I want something to happen!”

  Mr. Shagwell pressed his hands together so as to contain his anger. “Mr. Jenkins, I cannot speak with you thundering.”

  “I don’t believe you anymore,” returned Mr. Jenkins.

  Mr. Shagwell’s face turned a fiery red. “The truth of the matter is, sir, the Shagwell Cotton Mill Company is close to ruin.”

  Mr. Jenkins jerked up his head. “Ruin?”

  “Bankruptcy.”

  Mr. Jenkins stared at the mill owner in disbelief.

  “The competition has been too fierce,” Mr. Shagwell continued angrily. “Manchester, Taunton, Concord, not to mention Rhode Island, press us. I am losing money, sir, a great deal of it, and very quickly too!”

  “What do you propose to do?”

  With effort Mr. Shagwell pushed himself out of his chair and paced the floor. Then he said, “There is a certain individual — a British investor — currently in the city. A very wealthy man. And a guest in my house. If he can be coaxed properly, he is prepared to put money into the company. If he does — all will be well.”

  “A foreigner, eh? What’s his name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I like to know names.”

  “If you must know, it’s Clemspool. Matthew Clemspool. A gentleman from London.” With a show of disinterest, he contemplated his wall of ledger books.

  Mr. Jenkins — remembering what Mr. Grout had informed him regarding Clemspool — laughed derisively. “The man’s a swindler.”

  Mr. Shagwell whirled around. “I beg your pardon!”

  “A fraud. A crook.”

  The mill owner felt a sudden shortness of breath. “Why — Who provided you with your information?”

  “A man I met.”

  “A man you met,” Mr. Shagwell cried, his anger now boiling over. “You are absurd, sir!” But feeling weak, he, all the same, dropped heavily into his chair.

  “I’m only telling you what I heard. Look here, what if this Clemspool doesn’t provide the help you need?” Mr. Jenkins asked.

  “I … I don’t know,” Mr. Shagwell admitted. “I can apply to the local banks.”

  “And if they say no?”

  “A plague on all your questions!” Mr. Shagwell cried. “Just leave me. I have work to do. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”

  With a look of cold anger, Mr. Jenkins left the room.

  For a long while Mr. Shagwell, trying to calm himself, remained seated behind his desk. He wished he had not lost his temper and blurted out what he had. But the man was annoying. Demanding. Manipulative. Then and there, the mill owner made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him.

  But there was one thing Mr. Jenkins had said that he took very seriously. Did the man truly know something about Clemspool or was he bluffing? And if he did know, what truth was there to the notion that the Englishman was a swindler?

  Mr. Shagwell decided he had best engage in a frank conversation with Mr. Clemspool as soon as possible.

  As for Mr. Jenkins, he left another note for Mr. Grout at the hotel. It read,

  I can tell you where your Mr.

  Clemspool is to be found. Make

  sure you come to the Cotton

  House Tavern this evening.

  Jenkins

  After his fight with Nick, Patrick walked aimlessly about Lowell, not sure where he was or even where he wanted to go. Any number of times he huddled in doorways to keep warm. Twice he went into shops but was chased out.

  Why, he kept asking himself, are they so mad at the Irish?

  After walking some hours, he decided he simply had to speak with his sister. And, though it took him a while, he finally made his way to the Hamlyn house, where he found Bridy sitting on the front steps. She smiled at the sight of him.

  “Maura went out this morning,” she said. “The housemaid told me.”

  “Was it to look for work?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’ll tell her I’ve been by then, won’t you? And that I’ll be back. And thanks.”

  Hoping that Maura had found employment and thinking how grand it would be if she had, Patrick continued to walk about, taking in the sights of Lowell. Despite the cold, he still had no desire to go to Nathaniel’s room.

  It was while walking aimlessly about that he came upon a great Catholic church, bigger by far than any he had ever seen before. The church he knew in Kilonny was tiny and in a bad state of repair. This was something grand. ST. PATRICK’S CHURCH, a sign said. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he whispered, “everything is so big in America.”

  Patrick remembered that Nathaniel had said his father came here.

  For a long while Patrick simply gazed at the structure, the grandeur of the spire, the massive doors. Not at all sure he would be permitted to enter, he approached cautiously.

  Inside the church it was much warmer than outside. A delicate smell of incense wafted through the air. Dark pews stood row upon row like waves. The cross on the altar gleamed in the soft light of the stained-glass windows. Patrick, standing by the entrance, was enthralled.

  After dipping his hand in the font of holy water, he crossed himself and genuflected. Then he slipped into a back pew, sat quietly, and gazed about. Finally, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the pew before him, allowing the smooth coolness of the hard wood to fill him with calm. He prayed silently.

  It will be good in America, he told himself finally, it will.

  It was an hour later when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he looked about. A man — short and stooped, with an old, weather-beaten face — was standing there.

  “Are you all right, lad?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  Patrick stood up quickly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Just taking a bit of a rest, are ye?”
<
br />   “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re not alone, are ye? Have some family about?”

  “My sister.”

  “Blessings on her. I was just wanting to be sure you’re fine. Peace be with you, lad.” The man moved away.

  Patrick settled back down in the pew.

  Laurence woke later than he’d planned. Remembering that he had wanted to start searching for Patrick, he jumped up and looked about. Neither Mr. Grout nor Mr. Drabble was there.

  Wondering if they were in the lobby, he hurried downstairs. A fair number of men were sitting about smoking and talking, but there was no sign of his friends. Frustrated, the boy stepped onto the street.

  “Want your boots blackened?” a voice called to him.

  Laurence turned about. There was something almost comical about the shoe-shine boy who spoke to him, nearly hidden as he was in a large greatcoat that all but reached his toes. His cap, moreover, was pulled so low that it was hard for Laurence to see his face.

  “I beg your pardon?” Laurence replied.

  “I said your boots could use some blacking. How about it?”

  “No, thank you,” Laurence said, and turned to look again along the street.

  He felt a pull on his arm. “Hey, fellah,” Jeb said. “You got a funny way of talking. Where you from?”

  “England,” Laurence replied.

  “That’s pretty far, isn’t it?”

  Laurence merely nodded and once again turned away.

  “Who’d you come with?” Jeb tried.

  “Friends.”

  “Been here long?”

  “Couple of days.”

  “You going to stay? You like America?”

  “It’s fine,” Laurence answered. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the shoe-shine box.

  “It’s my work,” Jeb informed him. “Blacking boots and shoes. Just two cents a shine. I’m telling you, you could use one.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “You don’t? Then how come you’re staying here?” Jeb gestured back to the hotel.

  “My friends are paying.”

  “How come you came to Lowell?” Jeb asked in hopes of getting some of the information Mr. Clemspool wanted.

  “A friend is looking for someone.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Laurence hesitated. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious, that’s all. That person you’re looking for,” Jeb persisted, “is it someone living in Lowell?”

  Laurence, wanting no more questions, said only, “I’m not sure.”

  “Look here,” Jeb said, trying desperately to find a way to keep the boy by his side, “if you don’t have any money, I bet you’d like to get some, wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess …,” Laurence admitted.

  “How about working with me?” Jeb suggested. “Blacking shoes?”

  “Me?”

  “Sure thing. You can make ten cents a day, easy.”

  “Is that a lot?” Laurence asked.

  “My father wouldn’t say no to it.”

  “I’m not sure how long we’ll be here.”

  “Don’t matter. As long as you’re in Lowell, you could do it. What do you say? Split the work. Go shares on the cash.”

  Laurence considered. Perhaps Mr. Grout had already begun his job. And no doubt Mr. Drabble would be working in the theater. Might it not be better if he began to make some money on his own? Besides, if he were on the streets, he could always be on the lookout for Patrick.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it. But you’ll have to teach me how.”

  “Come on then!” Jeb opened his shoe-shine box and took out two bottles as well as a large dirty cloth. It was about six inches wide and two feet in length. “First thing,” he said, “is to show you how to do things.

  “This here is the blacking,” Jeb explained, holding up a bottle of inky fluid. The second bottle was filled with a bubbly gray substance. “Soap and water, see? You clean their shoes or boots with it first. Just don’t tell them what it is.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll think it’s cheap, which it is. If they asks, say, ‘Cleaning mix.’”

  “Do I have to talk to them?”

  Jeb looked at the English boy with puzzlement. “Ain’t you ever worked before?”

  Laurence blushed. “Not really,” he admitted.

  Jeb scrutinized him from under his cap. “You telling me this is your first job?”

  Sheepishly, Laurence nodded.

  “You are something,” Jeb said. “Well, it’s good work. You’re going to like it. And you’ll do all right as long as you stay with me. Now, watch, I’ll try to catch someone.” One hand cupped about his mouth, he called, “Black your boots! Black your boots!”

  After some twenty minutes of vigorous calling, an elderly gentleman approached and murmured, “Here, boy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeb cried. “You lean up against the wall here, and we’ll do you fine and bright.” To Laurence, he said under his breath, “Watch me close now.”

  Jeb knelt before the man. “Put your shoe here, sir,” he said. The old man placed his right foot on the box.

  Working quickly, Jeb put a dab of the “cleaning mix” onto the toe, then worked it about with the cloth. The cloth took on a black hue. After cleaning the shoe, he poured a spot of blacking on the toe, smeared it around with his fingers, then began to rub it in hard. Then he flung his cloth over the shoe and, holding on to both ends, whipped it back and forth. Now and again he pulled it off and — Laurence couldn’t figure how — snapped the cloth to make a sharp cracking sound. Then he worked the heel of the shoe in the same flamboyant fashion. Laurence smiled at the performance.

  The right shoe done, Jeb tapped it. Without looking, the man took his foot away and put up the other. Jeb started right in. Laurence continued to watch intently, trying to absorb all that he saw.

  When the blacking was finished, Jeb sounded a final double crack of his cloth and looked up. “That’s two cents,” he said.

  The man thrust a hand into a pocket, drew out some coins, gave Jeb three pennies, and walked away.

  “There,” Jeb said, holding out the money so Laurence could see. “Three cents. Nothing to it.”

  Laurence looked at the coins and wanted nothing more than to earn some on his own.

  With Jeb’s guidance, a nervous Laurence began to call, “Black your shoes! Black your shoes!”

  Ten minutes later he secured his first customer, a rather fat gentleman with a ruddy face.

  Excited, Laurence knelt before him and began to do the shoes. To his relief, Jeb, at his side, helped with comments and suggestions. When the job was done, Laurence looked up. “That’s two cents,” he whispered, hardly believing he would get paid.

  The man examined his shoes, gave a grunt of satisfaction, and dropped two pennies into Laurence’s hand.

  “There you go,” cried Jeb, giving a playful punch. “You’re a natural.”

  Laurence looked at the two coins in the palm of his hand. Never had he felt so proud.

  Where’s Jeb?” was the first thing Nick Boswell asked Tom Pelkerton when the boy arrived at their shanty. “How come he’s not here?”

  “Doing something for that Jenkins fellow maybe,” Tom answered.

  It was late afternoon, and Tom, shoe-shine box under his arm, was returning from his day’s work. By the light of the candle Nick had stuck in a bottle, Tom’s round face looked like a dirty full moon. The smell of boot blacking was strong.

  “It’s meeting time,” Nick said, sulking. The three boys were supposed to meet every other day. “And I need him too.”

  “I’m here,” Tom said, and he put his shoe-shine box down near the candle. Then he sat on the box and held his hands near the flame for warmth. “Something happen?” he asked.

  Nick studied his boots. At last he looked up. “I ran into a gang. An Irish gang.”

  “Why …,” Tom stammered, “what do you
mean?”

  “See, this morning I wasn’t doing much of anything — just stopping by the Western Canal, getting ready to go to work. A whole gang of them Paddies jumped me.”

  Tom’s eyes grew wide. “How many?”

  “Maybe ten, twenty. Came on so quick and sneaky, I couldn’t count them very well. I tried to fight them,” Nick said convincingly. “And I bloodied a few noses.”

  “I bet you did!”

  “Only there were too many. What they did was, they threw me in the canal.”

  “In the canal!”

  Nick looked into his friend’s frightened face. “You can bet I got a good soaking. Cold too. I had to get out on my own.”

  “You swim?”

  Nick nodded. “Then I came here. Tried to dry myself out.”

  “You should have gone home.”

  Nick shrugged. “Didn’t want to.”

  After a moment Tom said, “We going to do something about it?”

  “Sure thing. What do you think?”

  “They all bigger than you?” Tom whispered.

  “Sure were.”

  “They come from Lowell?”

  Nick shrugged. “They came at me so fast — like a regular swarm of bees — I only recognized one of them.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Remember, just yesterday — along Adams Street — there was that Paddy …?”

  “The little kid?”

  “Well, yeah …,” Nick said, made a bit uncomfortable by the description. “He was one of them.”

  “That why you wanted Jeb, so we could catch him?”

  “The three of us could, easy.”

  “Just that one?” Tom jeered, feeling a little easier. “Why, the two of us could do it. Let’s go looking for him.”

  First they went to the building on Adams Street where they had seen Patrick the day before. After waiting a while, Tom said, “Never mind him. I know where we could find us a Paddy.”

  “Where?”

  “That church. St. Patrick’s. You can always find some there.”

  Patrick, having spent a warm if solitary time in the church, decided that enough time had passed. Perhaps his sister had returned to the Hamlyns. Eager to find her, he left the church. But no sooner did he start down the steps than he saw Nick, the boy he had fought that morning.